


a field of sunflowers: a letter to happiness and the events between

by sunflower_8



Series: komahina week 2020 ! [7]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Depression, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Dude Shit Is Wild, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Minor Gore??, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Recovery, Russian Roulette, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Take Canon And Then Add Strawberries That Give You Therapy, Terminal Illnesses, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, and also, happiness!!!, i'm so sorry these tags are a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: despair. hope.the people in the midst.he wants to be important. he would fall to his knees before god and serve until he pays his penance. until he is remembered. all he’s ever wanted is to die at someone’s side, to escape his endless loneliness, to not be alone. it’s too much to ask.it’s too much to believe in.(or, the journey to recovery unfolds; komaeda's perseverance through despair and depression to finally obtain happiness)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Series: komahina week 2020 ! [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713769
Comments: 36
Kudos: 175
Collections: KomaHina Week 2020





	a field of sunflowers: a letter to happiness and the events between

[SIDE A]

\--

his entire life,

he has been surrounded by ghosts.

the stars are obscured by clouds, the noir sky overcast and dark. it’s a loneliness that could kill a person, much less a teenager with the heart of a child and a tattered mind of an adult. his memories collide-- the love he wants to receive and the innocence he never had clashing with the things he’s seen and known. he doesn’t think there’s any way to be happy,

not for someone damned like him. he’s hellspawn, a nightmare, terrors lurking behind shadows. he’s horrible, but in the streetlights of a too-big city you can see the figure of a child and  _ god god god- _

he breathes, heaves himself off the grass and walks inside, his footsteps echoing in the silence of his home. the emptiness of the corridors tear at him with the presence of ghosts and death and 

him, in the midst of it all.

on his way to his bed, he looks at a mirror. cracked glass shows cracked lips, and he can see the numbness in his eyes, the gauntness of his edges and the frailty of his hair.

komaeda nagito looks like a ghost.

\--

a ragged fifteen year old on an abandoned playground. it’s deathly quiet, so much so that he wishes the endless static that pursues him could be here instead. it’s dark, too, and he doesn’t mind the dark, but he feels so  _ lonely  _ when he can only talk to morning dew and grass. he realizes, idly, that it’s one am. 

he hopes he’ll die here.

footsteps resounding in the park, he flinches as he sees a cloaked man walk by. he watches in silent expectation as the stranger waves, continuing to walk through the area. through the trees, he sees the man approach a bridge, climb over the edge. he falls.

and  _ god _ , how tempting it is to follow.

he cries on the swingset instead.

\--

hope’s peak academy.

ultimate lucky student.

_ malignant dementia. _

_ frontotemporal dementia. _

congratulations.

_ i’m so sorry. _

“i’ve dealt with worse,” he mutters.

\--

the ceiling in the room is leaking. it’s probably because of the ultimate mechanic, messing with the pipes, enhancing his talent. still, the room is leaking, and of course it’s  _ his  _ room, because he’s unlucky. or maybe it’s spite, tampering with the pipes above  _ him _ , because nobody likes him anyway. they  _ hate _ him, actually.

_ can you blame them? can you can you can you? _

he feels a droplet land on his cheek. he sighs.

how hopeless.

\--

“happy birthday,” the walls say. 

he cries.

\--

two reserves dead.

they were talentless. worthless. even if they  _ were  _ the companions of ultimates, they were  _ nothing _ . no hope, no despair, empty. they were despicable-- they were just like him. only  _ lesser,  _ they were worse than filth, worse than  _ him _ , impossibly so. his hands shake at the thought-- he convinces himself it’s rage.

god, what he would pay to talk to them now. 

\--

_ hope doesn’t come from hurting people. _

“then why does it hurt so bad?” he asks himself.

(he’s selfish, he knows that, he lays in suspension and  _ knows  _ his horrors,

but he wishes they could understand.)

\--

despair. hope. 

the people in the midst.

he  _ wants  _ to be important. he would fall to his knees before god and  _ serve  _ until he pays his penance. until he is remembered. all he’s  _ ever  _ wanted is to die at someone’s side, to escape his endless loneliness, to  _ not be alone _ . it’s too much to ask.

it’s too much to believe in.

on the last normal day of his life, he lays in bed alone with a match in his hand. it touches his wrist and he  _ breathes  _ in the smoke and ash.

he wonders what it is like to be beyond hatred.

\--

enoshima. 

he hates her. he hates despair. it’s  _ filthy and dirty and ugly and wretched  _ and he hates it more than anything. he can’t breathe around her. his composition is maintained out of spite, even when every piece of him falls at her damned gaze. he hates her, he hates her hates her  **_hates her-_ **

the gun doesn’t fire,  _ his _ eyes as red as her fingernails. 

_ it’s a beautiful color, _ he thinks idly, the bullet racing towards him, 

_ if only i was beautiful. _

\--

[SIDE B]

\--

“who are you?”

“i’m servant.”

a beat. he presses the collar and chain into the others bloodstained hands. he leans down to kiss the palms; the other doesn’t twist away in disgust. he just watches.

he smiles, his lips cracked and bleeding.

“i’m  _ yours _ .”

\--

the world will experience hope again.

he pushes himself off the floor, his arms shaking. he can’t feel his legs and his whole body aches. his throat is still scratchy from the screaming. he doesn’t want to move, but he has to hurry up because they have to have lunch at some point, and it would be such a  _ shame  _ to not make food for his master. he might get punished, then, but it’s more likely he’ll be pitied, instead. especially when he’s been broken down into something like  _ this _ .

the world will experience hope again.

he just wished it didn’t hurt so much.

(but, he supposes, hard work pays off,

so he must bear his scars and wounds with pride.)

\--

hands on belt buckles and suit buttons, dexterously slipping fabric off. he leans on the bare chest,  _ broad  _ and  _ strong  _ and  _ warm  _ and

scars?

he falls to his knees. he can’t breathe, but he must serve, pushing himself through the panic to kiss his thighs, praying he will survive this like he survived  _ everything  _ that’s driven by  _ willpower  _ not  _ want,  _ but god he wants this if he could banish the tears away, if he could-

he’s pulled up by his chain before he can accomplish his task. he’s in his master’s lap now, looking into crimson eyes that view him with scrutiny. he just cries harder, says  _ i’m sorry  _ as loud as he can with a voice he lost from screaming. his master shakes his head and kisses him, brief enough that it feels unreal,

until he’s underneath the covers, curling up against the warmth of the other’s lap, praying--  _ hoping-- _ that he won’t have another nightmare.

above him, he hears his master sigh.

\--

“i’m worthless,” he breathes. “trash. disgusting. a nuisance. useless. terrible. a failure.”

the other glares at him.

he laughs shakily, “ah, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean-”

“you are interesting.”

it’s what he’s always wanted to hear,

so why does he feel so  _ sick _ ?

\--

“you are  _ mine _ .”

this kills the sickness in his heart.

\--

despair is something that can’t be described.

(every night, he slashes and burns and fucks and scars, hoping that the pain would end.)

he asks his master, selfishly, if he’s ever felt despair. his master doesn’t mean his eyes, looking at the debris-ridden ground before murmuring, “yes.”

he doesn’t ask more than that.

\--

“why do you stay?”

he snaps up and looks at his master, pressing a hand against his bare chest and entangling their legs. “sir?” slowly, he sits up above him, straddling him as he looks down. there’s something else in the red gaze, and his heart beats faster. he doesn’t  _ understand _ . “sir, what do you…”

his expression doesn’t falter. “why do you suffer?”

“sir… i don’t understand.” there’s a single breath out of rhythm, and it lets him know he’s messed up. he tries to re-orient himself, to lay idle and pliant against his chest again, but his entire body  _ trembles  _ and  _ why can’t he understand-  _ **_why can’t nobody understand-_ **

“... it does not matter. go to sleep, komaeda nagito.”

he’s failed,

and he will never be understood.

\--

he wakes up, his bed empty. his master is gone. he waits for  _ hours _ , convincing himself that the hope will come back, but he never does. he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t hurt himself, doesn’t blink for too long, hoping that the other will come back. but soon he gives up, his chain idly hanging without a hand to tug it. he always knew the other would have to leave him eventually, but it aches to know it was of his own volition. suddenly, he doesn’t quite feel like pursuing the ardent girl or helping the cruel child excel. suddenly, he doesn’t quite feel like anything at all.

\--

he helps her out from under the debris.

[a month]

she decides she hates despair.

[a month]

he tries to find his master and fails.

[a month]

he tries to kill himself.

[a month]

are they months or days?

[a month]

he’s caught. his own ineptitude, at a climax. a fever pitch. 

_ he wonders what will come of this. _

\--

[SIDE C]

\--

hinata hajime.

he smiles to himself that night. he’s never met someone so wonderful before.

(maybe he has, but he can’t remember

useless, useless,  _ but god, the hope inside him- _ )

\--

everyone’s looking at him with disgust, contempt, hatred. he just tried to help them, that’s all he wants. he wants them to  _ succeed,  _ but hinata looks at him with so much anger that he wonders if the brunet would say yes to killing him. he hopes so, but he knows he won’t. must he end his own life, too? after everything? no, he can’t, because he  _ must  _ see hope prevail. but god, he’s so, so tired, and he wishes they could embrace their hope  _ faster.  _ you can’t rush perfection, you can’t rush perfection- but why, why, why must he  _ suffer _ ?

\--

his eyes flicker to the bomb.

in his brain, he can see thousands of explosions, and he craves the taste of destruction. it’s the same craving that urged him, before all this occurred, to press the smoldering tip of a cigarette to his skin, to feel the burn and the pain against skin that,

someday,

would become ash anyway.

he has to act. he can’t allow so many ultimates to fall-- he can’t fail hope for something so idiotic. life is fickle and he  _ must  _ preserve the little good left. but at what cost? what can someone like  _ him  _ do to ensure the survival of everyone that matters? his luck won’t do him favors, but he-

he has to defeat this despair.

the others are ahead of him already. he sighs and he walks past the bomb. another day, then.

he doesn’t have many left.

\--

despair disease. 

his luck has humiliated him like this, left him ashamed as his illnesses become abundantly clear, his intentions clearer. and yet,  _ yet,  _ he is still ignored, even though this would be the  _ easiest  _ time to interrogate him, to ask-

_ get out. i can’t stand the sight of you. _

oh god, he  _ loves _ him.

and yet, the pestilence and the cure looks him in the eyes and spits, his fingertips growing numb and his mind dark.

“you don't understand? is it because you don't have anyone to love? is it because you're also someone who isn't accepted by anyone? … what a pity. i feel sorry for you-”

**_SHUT UP!_ **

\--

he hopes the russian roulette kills him. 

_ click.  _

“dammit!” he mumbles to himself when it fails, hardly strong enough to stand, to live on past it. 

_ bad luck… so good luck must come soon, right? _

when he discovers the truth, he wishes he could point the gun to his head and end it. he wants to tear himself apart, drown in the ocean, asphyxiate on  _ something _ . he craves it desperately. it would benefit humanity, anyway.

but he  _ can’t _ . 

it’s time to act.

\--

he hopes it hurts. he hopes it burns, it stings. he hopes he asphyxiates and chokes, he hopes he has to taste the blood and the poison. he hopes the pain is paralyzing and so unbelievably bad. he hopes he can’t think straight after he hurts himself, he hopes he claws at himself hoping it will end. he hopes he writhes, cries, screams. he hopes he dies hated, spat upon, and he hopes he decomposes into nothingness. he hopes it fucking  _ hurts.  _

he hopes.

\--

_ and then he wakes up. _

\--

[SIDE D]

\--

red eye. 

he tries to get up. “sir?”

a small shake of the head. “hinata.”

“hinata-kun?”

the reserve who sold his soul, his body, his mind off to hope’s peak academy to create the ultimate hope that brought the world the most despair. the person he served lies dormant in the body of the person he loved. sometimes, he comes to the front and speaks, but the more charismatic man usually takes control. none of them are dead, except nanami, and whose fault is that? everything will be okay, now. his diseases are cured.

this is what he learns.

“komaeda?”

tears fall down his face. he hates him. he loves him. 

“ _ hinata-kun _ .”

\--

his hand is no longer colored by red nails. it’s a prosthetic, instead, a meticulous structure made of keratin and metal. he can  _ feel  _ things, use it fully (albeit, it does  _ hurt _ a bit). most of all, he’s free from  _ her,  _ who haunts him in his dreams but can no longer take his body away. the first time he sees it, hinata looking over him eagerly,

he cries.

\--

“i’m unlovable.”

a calloused hand brushes against his cheek, tilting his chin up to look at him. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful, so perfect, so human.

both eyes are alit with passion. “i disagree.”

\--

there are a lot of places to hide on jabberwock island, he finds, but the best one is amidst the fields of sunflowers and strawberries. 

it’s quiet. it’s too quiet, at times. but it’s solitude. it’s sanctuary.

in his real hand, he holds the collar and chain. he breathes in the scent of herbs and the nearby shore, his hands shaking ever so slightly. it’s so peaceful. it’s so quiet. he begins to hyperventilate, laughing softly to himself. in the distance, he can see someone coming over, eyebrows furrowed in concern. he giggles, curling up into a ball and sobbing until he’s almost gagging. he can feel the phantom pains in the exact places he slashed, impaled, burned. and now, he feels a hand on his cheek, and it hurts the worst.

recovery is never easy.

\--

“screwdriver.”

he fumbles to grab it, handing it to the mechanic. he doesn’t spare him a glance, but he does mutter, “thanks.”

they’re quiet for a long time, the only thing they can hear being the whirring of the machine. and then, suddenly, it  _ stops _ . he watches the pink-haired man throw the tools down and swipe at his hair with a grime-covered hand. “why the fuck does it have to  _ be  _ like this, komaeda?”

he hesitates. he’s not the one to ask. his hands tremble, but he eventually replies, voice flat, “i don’t know. naegi-kun would say something about us having to suffer so we can feel alive.”

“do you believe that?” 

“i don’t know.”

the mechanic stares at him for a long, long time. and then he wipes a tear from his cheek and says, “fuck it all, then. gimme a wrench, will ya?”

work goes on.

\--

“i can’t do this.”

soft hands cup his face, warm green eyes looking into his. the scent of white tea is both calming and overwhelming, and he doesn’t know if he can breathe, but she doesn’t take his eyes off of him and she waits until, quietly, she whispers,

“it’s just tea.”

she lets him set the china down.

\--

“i have been monitoring your progress health wise. you are doing well, komaeda.” 

he shakes his head, burying his face against the other’s shirt. “i’m failing, kamukura-kun. i can’t do this anymore, please, i just want it to  _ stop,  _ please-”

“shh.” it’s back to the other, now. “it’s okay, ko. you’ve been making friends, yeah? you’ve taken up gardening. you’re good. you’re going to be good someday.” his eyes break from his, heterochromatic gaze targeted to the ceiling. his voice tapers to something quieter. “we’ll both be.”

he sits up, nearly straddling him, clutching the brunet’s shoulders. “please,” he whispers, and the red eye gleams in recognition.

still, he fights-- they both do. “not today, ko.”

“use me.”

hinata doesn’t reply at first, sighing tiredly and running his hand through his white hair. he purrs into the touch selfishly, nuzzling against him and wishing the warmth

could drown it all out.

only then does hinata murmur, “go to sleep, love. things will be easier tomorrow.”

(he doesn’t know if he believes that)

\--

he’s exhausted.

laying in the fields at midnight-- he’s so, so exhausted.

if he closes his eyes and slows his breathing, he still feels as if he’s

running out of time.

\--

“i still have the collar and chain,” he mentions idly one night. hinata stops buttoning his shirt to spin around and look at him. he continues, targeting his smile at the ground. “if you ever wanted to. i always promised i was yours, right?”

a beat. 

then the brunet kneels in front of him, and he’s not entirely sure who’s speaking when he hears, “you’re more than that.”

if it’s weak to cry, then, he doesn’t think much about it.

(maybe next time)

\--

kuzuryuu is tired, looking far too small to be an adult as he sits in a dining room booth alone. 

he sympathizes and approaches the yakuza ex-leader, silent. he speaks almost immediately, “why the  _ fuck _ ,” he starts, already a hitch in his breath, “is it  _ like this? _ ”

he doesn’t know what to say,

so he says nothing.

(later, kuzuryuu sits next to him at dinner. they stay silent, but they understand.)

\--

“happy birthday,” hinata says, setting a slice of vanilla cake in front of him.

he succumbs to the tears in his eyes.

\--

eyes fluttered shut, hips against the bed. it’s bliss. 

before they can really begin, a hand is pressed against his chest. a pair of lips finds home in the crook of his neck. they mouth the words that come to life in the air-- “this is for us. not me.  _ us _ . chase your pleasure, ko. i’m here.  _ we’re _ here. enjoy yourself.”

he does.

(has he ever been happier?)

\--

they’re gazing at the stars, then. a hand in his, grass tickling their skin. for once,  _ once,  _ he isn’t thinking.

“ko?”

“hinata-kun?” he turns to gaze at him. his companion smiles,

and

“i love you.”

hinata allows him to clasp his frail hands over his, holding it to his heart as he nestles his neck against the other’s strong chest. they’re quiet, and then, “i love you too. i love you  _ so much _ , i-” he doesn’t sob. he doesn’t cry or whimper or  _ beg.  _ he just breaks off and closes his eyes, uncaring of the stars above.

that’s not what matters, right now.

his lover kisses his forehead. 

he thinks this is his new sanctuary.

\--

_ red, red, red, red, red,  _

_ her eyes on him, lips against his neck, he tries to pull away he can’t, he can’t, her despair _

_ is intoxicating _

_ he can’t breathe, he- _

he wakes up. the other is at his side when he does. the sun is coming through the cracks in their curtain, and the room echoes the gentle, “you’re safe now,”

and he wishes he could believe him.

(his mind flickers to the warehouse

because he thinks if he stabbed himself again, he wouldn’t feel a single thing)

\--

he visits the warehouse three days later, hinata’s hand tight in his. if he closes his eyes, he thinks he could see himself set up the murder, see the exact moment he died. 

he keeps his eyes open instead.

“komaeda?” a stiff but caring voice asks.

_ he hopes it hurts so, so bad, he hopes the traitor thanks him, he hopes he’s remembered, he hopes he remembers, he hopes he remembers remembers hinata, he hopes he hurts hurts hurts he hopes everything falls apart, he hopes his final breath is weighed heavy with the words hope, the word hinata, hinata, please hate him, he hopes he hates him, he hopes it hurts more than  _ **_the thought of killing him-_ **

“it’s not as scary in person.”

it’s not a lie.

his lover’s eyes light up, an easy smile across his face,

and they don’t blink,

not for a second.

\--

“why am i not happy yet?” he asks the water, tossing a pebble into it and watching it ripple. he briefly entertains the thought of drowning, but he knows he can’t. he wants the salt water to burn his scars, remind him of the sins he’s committed, but he wonders if he deserves forgiveness. to the ocean, he says, “why can’t i be happy?”

the ocean calls back,

“you will be, even if it isn’t

endless.”

and he fears this is what he missed all along.

\--

hands intertwined, kisses to knuckles. “do you think we should get married?”

“if that’s what you want.” 

(he doesn’t want to fear commitment anymore.)

“but do you  _ want _ -”

“i’d say yes.”

he hesitates, “ko-”

“ _ hajime _ .”

he doesn’t expect to be embraced tightly, lips against his intensely, but he smiles into it. when they finally pull apart, both coloured eyes gleam, “marry me, nagito,” 

and he can only muster a nod.

(arms around him, warm,  _ safe _ )

\--

the arrival of happiness is unusual. it feels like a lot of things at once, and yet the constant static of thoughts go completely  _ silent.  _ he doesn’t know what to do with his body, with his mind, when things are so at peace. the arrival of happiness  _ terrifies  _ him,

but he  _ loves  _ it.

\--

he closes his eyes, feeling the dirt underneath bare feet, a field surrounded by sunflowers. tears fall down, but for once they feel happier than sad. they’re at least  _ okay,  _ and he’s fine with that. he wonders if the ocean knows; he wonders if like the tide, the sadness will come again.

he doesn’t want it to come back.

(he knows it will, he knows it will hurt him worse in the end,

but he wants to enjoy  _ this _

because isn’t both happiness and sadness on the horizon anyway?)

he doesn’t open his eyes even when he hears someone approach, take his hand and stand silently with him. when he finally looks over after a few minutes that stretch forever, hinata gives him a small smile, brushing his tears away and kissing his forehead. 

“i think i’ll be okay,” he whispers, not wanting to break the calmness of the scene.

hinata doesn’t say anything for a while. it’s only minutes later that he says, softly, “we will be,” and he pulls him close into an embrace.

“do you think i deserve that?”

he laughs fondly, “ko, you  _ always  _ have.”

he finds himself laughing too.

“after everything,” the sunflowers tell him, “you deserve this.”

the strawberries hum, “it’s going to be just okay.”

“it isn’t endless, but it’s something,” the ocean adds.

_ thank you,  _

he wants to say, but he knows they understand. they always have.

he looks past hinata’s shoulder at the sunset,

_ and thinks he may have found happiness. _

**Author's Note:**

> future au | birthday | free day
> 
> this is not only the last day of komahina week, an experience that has introduced me to so many amazing people. this is not only nagito komaeda's birthday, one of my favorite characters... ever who means so much to me. this is my 100th fic on archive, and i'm so fucking glad that this fic is the one to commemorate that.
> 
> please excuse me being a sappy fucker for a moment:
> 
> things have been really shit lately, but i mean, things have always been really shit. and i think discovering archive less than a year ago... really changed things for me, even if things are still bad, because that’s how it is. i've met so many incredible people, found a coping mechanism... it's meant. so much to me. the fact that i've written 100 things is insane to me, and i'm sure this speech is better suited to an anniversary but... regardless.
> 
> this is one of my favorite things i've ever written. it's so fucking important to me. and maybe i'm just feeling weird because i don't cry very often, especially not when i'm happy. but fuck, i'm overwhelmed. and i get that this is probably really stupid ahaha. it's not like i'm getting a nobel peace prize or some shit. but this... means a lot to me.
> 
> thank you to the komahina island discord, you guys are... so fucking incredible. i've known you guys for a week and a bit over and you're the fucking best. thank you to literally anybody who ever even touched my fic because you guys have had to put up with so many vents and messes and disasters of characterization, and yet. and yet. thank you to you guys again for listening to me SOUND LIKE A MESS i've had a weird time and... this means a lot. you mean a lot.
> 
> okay. that's all. i love you guys. please take care


End file.
